10-13-2025, 12:49 AM
— i would rather learn what it feels like to burn than feel nothing at all —
On the edge of the meadow, she burns.
It defies logic, she thinks, that she has burned for as long as she has. All fires die eventually, but not hers — not her. She is not even sure what fuels it anymore, because all the anger and rage of her youth has faded to nothing but cold, forgotten ash. She almost misses it. Somehow, the fury was better than the bored indifference. There wasn’t really a reason to be angry anymore, was there? She did not care that she was nearly untouchable. The small portion of the population that could withstand the flames that tirelessly licked across her body were not necessarily anyone she wanted to be touched by, the one — the only one — she has ever wanted is long gone.
She had burned through that anger, too.
She had tried letting herself miss him, she had tried blocking him out, and she had tried forgetting him. In the end, the cycle had run its course, leaving her as she is now.
Apathetic, bored, and detached from it all.
From where she stands she can see the flame-like bird as it soars across the lightening sky, and behind her flickering forelock her eyes narrow briefly. Fire always caught her attention, as much as she despised it. Like calling to like, as they say. Mostly it catches her attention because she cannot remember the last time she encountered anyone, or anything, with any type of fire magic. This is a shapeshifter, of that she is sure; she was born in this place, long before magic ran rampant the way it did now, and she knew Beqanna’s magic as she knew herself.
Despite her better judgement (she never enjoys the conversations, but she is also desperate to feel something, even if it is putting herself in a situation that will only end up irritating her) she finds herself walking towards the revived tree and its savior. Engulfed in flame and shimmering with sparks, she exercises virtually no caution over standing so close to the flammable wood; she has yet to burn this place down, despite her best efforts. “What made you decide to do that?” she asks the phoenix, not entirely blunt though her voice has never been soft, either. But ever the cynic, she did not entirely understand the idea that anyone would do something simply for the sake of being kind.
It defies logic, she thinks, that she has burned for as long as she has. All fires die eventually, but not hers — not her. She is not even sure what fuels it anymore, because all the anger and rage of her youth has faded to nothing but cold, forgotten ash. She almost misses it. Somehow, the fury was better than the bored indifference. There wasn’t really a reason to be angry anymore, was there? She did not care that she was nearly untouchable. The small portion of the population that could withstand the flames that tirelessly licked across her body were not necessarily anyone she wanted to be touched by, the one — the only one — she has ever wanted is long gone.
She had burned through that anger, too.
She had tried letting herself miss him, she had tried blocking him out, and she had tried forgetting him. In the end, the cycle had run its course, leaving her as she is now.
Apathetic, bored, and detached from it all.
From where she stands she can see the flame-like bird as it soars across the lightening sky, and behind her flickering forelock her eyes narrow briefly. Fire always caught her attention, as much as she despised it. Like calling to like, as they say. Mostly it catches her attention because she cannot remember the last time she encountered anyone, or anything, with any type of fire magic. This is a shapeshifter, of that she is sure; she was born in this place, long before magic ran rampant the way it did now, and she knew Beqanna’s magic as she knew herself.
Despite her better judgement (she never enjoys the conversations, but she is also desperate to feel something, even if it is putting herself in a situation that will only end up irritating her) she finds herself walking towards the revived tree and its savior. Engulfed in flame and shimmering with sparks, she exercises virtually no caution over standing so close to the flammable wood; she has yet to burn this place down, despite her best efforts. “What made you decide to do that?” she asks the phoenix, not entirely blunt though her voice has never been soft, either. But ever the cynic, she did not entirely understand the idea that anyone would do something simply for the sake of being kind.
Brinly
@Fireheart